The Dead Don't Get Out Much (17 page)

I said, “Was Giuseppe a partisan too?”

Giuseppe nodded, giving the toupee a workout. He seemed to have understood that question.

Vittorio said sadly, “No, he wasn't. He spent the war in the hospital with tuberculosis.”

“Oh, but…”

“He has good days and bad days. This is a bad day. He might think he was a partisan. He was not.”

“Okay. Does he remember the name of the other partisan that he and Luciano Falcone knew?”

Vittorio shrugged. On him it seemed flirtatious. “Today he wouldn't remember his own mother's name.”

“Mamma!”
Giuseppe shouted.

I took a swig of wine.

Vittorio smiled approvingly.

“Giusep',” he shouted and asked the same question three times in Italian. I caught the words Lucian' and
partigian'
.

Tears formed in Giuseppe's empty azure eyes.

Vittorio said, “We don't want to upset him. If we talk of other matters, he might remember. I'll get him a bit more grappa. Would you like another glass of wine?”

Somehow I didn't think grappa would be the answer to Giuseppe's memory lapse, but I was new to the culture. I still had plenty of wine, so I turned down the offer of a second glass, before I had lapses of my own.

“By any chance, would he remember the town signor Falcone's friend lives in? Or maybe you overheard them talking?”

Vittorio shrugged. Giuseppe joined him in the shrug, even though he didn't understand the question.

I looked straight at Giuseppe and asked loudly, “Montechiaro? Pieve San Simone? Alcielo?”

A look of unbearable sadness passed over his face.

Vittorio said, “We mustn't push him,
signora
. He is having problems. The slightest stress only freezes his memory, and he feels very bad, very inadequate. We must talk about other things. How much we liked our old friend. I will tell him you said something nice about Luciano. What will it be?”

I thought for a minute. “Although I never met him, from what I have heard, signor Falcone was a fine and generous man.”

I could tell from his face the comment was well received. A fast conversation ensued. I listened and didn't understand a word.

In the middle of it, Giuseppe shouted, “Stagno Toscano.”

“What's that?” I whispered. “A wine?”

“Benissimo!”
Vittorio said. “He remembers the town.”

The good news: he remembered. The bad news: I had another town to add to the list. Never mind, I told myself. It's better than nothing.

“And the name of the person?” I said.

Vittorio gave me a reproachful glance.

A half-hour later, Giuseppe still hadn't remembered the name. I was beginning to feel desperate. I wouldn't be able to put off another glass of local red forever.

“Signor Ralli,” I said.

“Vittorio,” he said flirtatiously.

Fine. “Can you ask him if he has told anyone else about this other friend who was with signor Falcone?”

I gathered from the resulting injured looks and what sounded like recriminations that no one else knew about the friend. No one. No one whatsoever. Absolutely no one! A lot of denials. Was Giuseppe lying like a rug? Had he already told the mysterious visitor? Or did he really not remember? I made no more headway. In fact, when I persisted, both men developed pouts. I put Stagno Toscano, wherever that was, on the list just ahead of Montechiaro, Pieve San Simone and Alcielo.

Vittorio leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me where you are staying, signora Camilla. I will contact you when Giuseppe has a memory breakthrough. I will get you the name. Trust me.”

I did. In fact, I was sufficiently grateful for their efforts that I bought a round of grappa for the two of them. What the hell, I decided to have one myself. Paul and I had had a memorable evening consuming the potent beverage. I'd forgotten how much like floor cleaner it tasted, and how it raised the top off your skull and made your eyes water. Never mind, I was on foot, and if no one lit a match near me, I would probably survive the two-mile walk back to the Paris Hotel.

* * *

As the old saying goes, too soon old and too late smart. I was whistling my way along the ancient curved streets, heading back to the bridge over the Arno, when I caught sight of Fabrizio and his mother.

“Hello,
signora!”
I shouted, in the manner of one who has had a snootful.

Maria Martello's striking face contorted.
“Strega!”
she screamed.

Strega?

I was pretty sure
strega
meant witch. That didn't make any sense. I'd never been called a witch. Other things, yes, witch, no.

“Pardon me?” I said.

“Ladra!”

Thief?

Now just hold on.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“I am kind to you, I let you in to my home, when I am in terrible grief, and what do you do!
Ladra! Ladrona!”

“Stop screaming,” I said. “I am not a thief, and I am definitely not a big fat thief. What on earth do you think I did?”

“You know what you did.”

“I have done nothing. I have been at the bar with the
signore s
friends.”

“You have been in our home to steal signor Falcone's photographs and papers!”

I have to admit, the grappa on top of the red wine and my enduring jetlag made it hard to deal with this bizarre accusation. I told myself to keep calm and not to make things any worse. Didn't matter, they got worse on their own.

“You mean someone broke into your house?” My head whirled dangerously.

“You did!”

“Not true. I didn't break into your house.”

“Pfff. I have called the police already. I hope you die in jail, you witch.”

“What did they take?”

“Ha! You already know. Thief!”

“Why would you even think I had anything to do with it?”

“Because you wanted the photos and the information about the other partisans.”

“You said you'd give them to me. Why would I steal them?”

“Maybe you couldn't wait.”

“Why do you think it was me?”

“You were seen. That is proof.”

“Seen? Who could have seen me?”

From behind his mother, Fabrizio smirked.

I gasped. Of course. The little creep. First, I sympathize with him for inadvertently causing the death of his benefactor, then he tries to frame me.

The gloves came off.

“And did I get the photos and information?” I asked, expecting the answer to be no.

“Of course you did. That is why I am so angry.” The
signora
's nostrils flared. She stood with her hands on her hips, very voluptuous, very Italian, and, I realized, very dangerous.

“Well, I did not,” I said. “And I will be happy to tell the police that.”

“Of course you deny it.”

“I will tell the police they should talk to your son about where he got the money to buy that expensive soccer shirt.”

“Signor Falcone gave him the money.”

“I don't think so. I think a man gave him the money to say when the
signore
would be going to the bar. I think that same person asked Fabrizio to get the photos and letters. I also think that same man will kill the
signore s
friend next. That's a lot for one
cattivo raggazzo
to be guilty of.”

Fabrizio was struggling to understand our conversation in English. He picked up on the
cattivo raggazo
all right.

“That is not true! Fabrizio is not a bad boy. He would never do such things.” The
signora
glanced fondly at her darling and hesitated just a blink.

“I don't expect you to believe me. I think the police would think that Fabrizio could have been an innocent child used by a killer in signor Falcone's death. Of course, if something happens to the second man, Fabrizio's in deep, deep trouble. Do they put children in jail in Italy?”

She clasped her hands on her capacious bosom and howled. The woman clearly had missed a career on the stage. She had the body for it and all the right dramatic impulses. Plus a voice that could really project.

I continued, “Go ahead. Talk to the police. I sure intend to.”

I pivoted and strode off. The stress of the situation coupled with the grappa caused my head to spin, but I think I made a dignified exit. One thing I knew, I had to get to Stagno Toscano quickly, before someone else did.

First, I raced back to the café and spoke to Vittorio and Giuseppe. I grabbed Vittorio by the arm and blurted out about the break-in and the theft of the letters and photos.

“We need to find Giuseppe's friend and warn him. And warn his family.”

Vittorio stared at me with his mouth open, grappa glass suspended. “Signora Camilla! Please slow down. Sit, sit. Here,” he gestured to the waitress, “have a glass of wine to calm yourself.”

Oh, sure. I'd had more than enough wine. I opted for
aqua frizzante
. I did sit and repeat the story a little less breathlessly, as I sipped my mineral water. It had the desired effect.

I said, “Where is this place, Stagno Toscano? Show me on the map. If he can't remember, I'll go to the town and ask them who knows about partisans. Is it a small place? Couldn't I just ask around?”

“It is only about an hour from Florence, southwest of the city. It is too big for everyone to know who was a partisan and anyway, young people today don't want to hear about the war.”

“He has to watch out for a man in a black Mercedes.”

“Giuseppe still doesn't remember. Soon though, any minute, I am confident, it will come back to him. I will do my best to find out for you. I give you my word.”

I took a good look at Giuseppe, whose toupee appeared to be turned backwards by this time. I figured he was as high as any transmission tower, and the required remembering just might not be happening. I'd really helped that along with my gift of grappa. What a dope.

Vittorio insisted he would call me when Giuseppe recalled his friend's name. Giuseppe had begun to sing a happy peasant song. Something about birds.

* * *

I bustled through the door of the Hotel Paris, hoping Maria Martello hadn't swallowed her fears for Fabrizio and phoned the police, and in turn, that the cops hadn't located my hotel. I was grateful that I hadn't written my name down for Fabrizio's mother. I checked for messages. Vittorio still hadn't called with the name of the friend in Stagno Whatzit. Oh well, it wasn't like I had nothing to do. With luck, I'd find Mrs. P. surrounded by emotional Russians.

I asked the concierge about concerts in churches and was loaded up with flyers. I freshened up in the room and took a couple of Tylenol to overcome the grappa headache. I swiped on some Graffiti Red, re-swirled the silk scarf around my neck and headed out for the nearest phone booth. I tried Alvin one more time. He was gasping for breath when he finally answered.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing is not a good answer. Have you heard anything from Mrs. P.?”

“Have I? You mean you spent the whole day in Florence, and you still haven't found her?”

“And what have you found out during your day?”

“First of all, it's just getting started.”

“I need to know about the security cameras, Alvin.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Last time, I found another image of that guy who passed us just as we were coming into the building. You can see his face better this time, and it's obviously the same person.”

“You did? That's great. You can ask the Super who it is.”

“Like I never would have thought of that. Since we looked at him together on the screen.”

“Right. Sorry. What did he say?”

“He'd seen the guy around, only once or twice. He doesn't know who it is. And if the Super doesn't know him, he couldn't live in the building, or even be a regular visitor. We still have some more stuff to view. It's so boring, you have no idea.”

“You're the one up on technology, Alvin. Is there a way to get the image to me? Spend whatever you have to on it. I'll reimburse you.”

“I'm on it,” he said.

“Keep up the good work. I'm off to church. Find a solution. I'll call you in the morning.”

“You're going to church? Wait a minute,” he said, but it was too late.

* * *

Armed with the list of church concerts, I turboed along the streets of Florence, pushing my way through Florentines dressed elegantly in well-cut black wool coats and classy leather boots. I was jostled by flocks of tourists wearing candy-coloured scarves from market vendors. I ruled out concerts with Mozart or Chopin, too tame for Mrs. P. The concierge had suggested a couple of possibilities and written down directions. I pushed against the tourists thronging the piazza in search of the most likely concert, needless to say featuring works by Shostakovich.

An hour later, having been lost and turned around at least three times, I had peeked into three churches and come up empty. For once, I wasn't running into people who'd worked in England or the USA. No one could help. Where were all the people with cousins in Canada when you needed them? My Italian was getting a workout, although my brain seemed to be on strike. Finally, I approached a young woman playing her flute on a street corner. To my relief she answered in English with a distinct Scots burr. I asked if she knew of a concert that might appeal to someone with a love of Shostakovich. She suggested I try a nearby church.

I dropped a couple of Euros into her open flute case and hustled my butt. It was nearly nine o'clock on what had been a long, tiring, confusing day which had also included too much wine and grappa, and no dinner. I had no time to eat. As it was, any concert would be nearly over.

The church she suggested was like dozens of also-rans in Florence, not old enough to be historically significant, attractive, not beautiful. Who cared? Inside it sounded like a string quartet was doing right by Shostakovich. I paid my two-Euro ticket, nodded to the woman at the ticket desk, and slipped through the door. The dark woodwork and pews gave it a certain gloomy gravitas, although the frescos and gilded statues lifted the atmosphere. I had no idea who all those saints were. Of course, I had other things on my mind.